You seem busy (as always). Would I hear back from you if I could send these letters? I remain unsure of what loves we might share. Is there anything beyond ourselves?

Do you need others to know you exist? Is the murdering related somehow? Do we only exist in each other? In what we do to each other?

I’ll never forget Xerxes marching to war with his armies (his eyes wet with tears): “I was thinking about the extreme brevity of men’s lives, for of the multitude before our eyes, not one man will still be alive in a hundred years.” Can you remember this? Will you ever?

I’m not playing a game. There isn’t time. I keep fighting the abstractions in my way. Maybe this is what it means to be truly alive.